


the self as a mysterious circumstance

by luna_plath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Het, Implied Incest, Kink Meme, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jon is seduced.  Written for the prompt <i>thunderstorms.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the self as a mysterious circumstance

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes it's hard to put a good cliche to rest. Assumes R + L = J.

Spring at Dragonstone is airy and bright one moment and overcast the next, with rain blowing in from the Narrow Sea at a moment’s notice. One of those many storms is lurching along the horizon, bringing sharp winds along with the salty cast of the sea while Jon slinks away from the open balcony doors, a cup of wine in hand.

There are scrolls of parchment paper covering his writing table, papers that had belonged to his father over twenty years ago, books form Asshai piled in a tall stack on the desk. Ghost sleeps in front of the fireplace with his massive frame stretched across the hearth. 

It’s warm enough for the flames to burn low in the grate, but if the storm reaches the island he will have to build up the fire and close the narrow doors to the terrace. Jon stayed up late into the night reading, pouring over the books and forgotten papers that Dragonstone held. He only made it to his family’s house seat once a year or so, but whenever he managed to it was more than Jon could do to restrain himself from poking around. He’d spent so long thinking himself at least partially a Stark, and while he hadn’t been wrong in that regard, his suspicions about his parentage hadn’t been correct, either.

A gust of wind sends the edges of his papers turning. Jon drinks the last sip of his wine and closes the doors, sending the turmoil from the room. As the air shifts, he catches the scent of something warm and heady that reminds him of smoke. With Ghost so near it isn’t hard to reach out and embrace what his wolf’s senses are telling him, to straighten the line of his spine and close his eyes for just a moment.

Daenerys stands in the entrance to his solar, the door closed behind her with silver hair loose like he rarely sees it.

“Your Grace,” Jon says. 

“I didn’t know you liked to read so much. Perhaps you’re more like my brother than I thought,” she says, glancing over the papers he’s left out.

“Can you blame me for being interested?” Jon asks, adding a few more pieces of dried driftwood to the fire. With his back to her it’s easier to disregard the way her presence unnerves him. Ignoring his wolf-senses has become difficult, and Daenerys herself is impossible to ignore, especially when he catches the fiery scent of dragons clinging to her skin or the faint presence of her foreign perfumes.

“No,” she smiles. “I was the same way when I first came here. Sometimes I forget that you know as little about these things as I do.”

By “these things” he wonders if she means dragons, or ruling a kingdom, or the histories of their family. All are true. The visits to Dragonstone are one of the only times he allows himself to really pursue his curiosity about his dead father. Jon knows everything about his mother’s family, but the Targaryens still hold some mystery to him, with Daenerys perhaps the most enigmatic factor of them all. 

Her violet eyes shine brightly, flashing against the firelight that has begun to crackle and climb higher in the grate. He shivers despite its warmth.

Jon takes one of the seats facing the fireplace, trying to ignore the flush of awareness that comes over him when Daenerys claims the other, the closest to his own. The side of his body nearest her has begun to prickle, a tight, almost uncomfortable feeling just beneath his skin that grows more noticeable the longer he’s in her company.

His awareness of her has been sharp from the beginning. If it were merely her beauty that interested him their relationship would be no different from that of her other suitors, but the fact that they are the last two dragons, the only ones left, makes their every interaction thick with the weight of their shared history. He’s kept his distance instead of competing for her attention like half the nobles of Westeros, fruitlessly searching for a hint of his father in her and finding only his own desire.

Desire for her, or for the closest thing to Rhaegar Targaryen he can find? Jon asks himself innumerable times, and recently the words have ceased to make an impact on his conscience. His reasons for wanting are so tangled, so fused, that his mind refuses to separate them. His want is the only thing he knows.

He has never touched Daenerys, but most of the realm seems to assume otherwise. Jon has seen the way members of court look at them, has heard the rumors that are passed even within the Red Keep, which is part of the reason he maintains their separation. The fact that they’re unmarried makes anything else between them inappropriate, but the wrongness of it does not stop him from noticing her and it certainly doesn’t dampen the sharp, visceral sensation of sensing her through Ghost.

Looking at him with her too-dark eyes, she asks, “What are you trying to find in all this?”

She indicates the mass of books and papers with the tilt of her head, a simple gesture that changes the angle of light on her hair, making it look almost as pale as Ghost’s fur. The wind makes a fierce assault against the walls of Dragonstone, much stronger than it had sounded earlier. The storm is arriving.

Jon clenches his sword hand, a habit that persists from another life. “I want to know why he was so convinced in what he did. Why did he see that it was so important? Why choose Lyanna?”

He does not need to mention that he’s speaking of Rhaegar. Jon suspects that Daenerys, above all others, understands him in this.

“I do not know. I do not think there is an answer to what you are asking.” She bites her lower lip, a habit he’s noticed during small council meetings or serious discussions, one of her few signs of uncertainty. “I think what you really want to know is something else, isn’t it? What you mean to say is, why did he choose _you_?”

Jon swallows the painful knot of emotion in his throat, shoves away his childish memories of wondering _why me_ whenever he was reminded of his last name, and looks Daenerys in the eye. The slow patter of rain fills the silence.

“He had some purpose in mind. I do not wish to disappoint his memory.”

The smile she gives him is soft, though he can’t say what thoughts are present behind her sympathy.

“You must decide your own purpose, Jon. Neither of us can say what my brother’s intentions were, no matter how many books you look through.” At this point she looks away from him and into the flames, casting her features in shadow. “However, there is a role you may still fulfill. It may not have been Rhaegar’s dream, but it is mine, and without you it can never be accomplished.”

A faint roll of thunder crashes in from the sea, and Jon cannot ignore the intense sensations that are washing over him. He can smell the sweet flavor of her skin, the lingering trace of fire and dragon scales and the hot scent of blood just underneath it all. Daenerys stands from her chair, the deep purple of her silks clinging to her limbs. His thoughts run wild and Jon imagines grabbing her narrow waist, tugging at her clothes, kissing her neck like a wolf claiming its mate.

He is almost surprised when her small, warm body finds its way into his lap. Jon wants to sweep his tongue into her mouth and rip her dress from her pale shoulders; he clenches his sword hand instead. Daenerys uncurls his burnt fingers and places his palm against her cheek. 

“I need you to do this for me,” she says, assuming that Jon, above all others, will understand her in this.

The sound of thunder rattles the night sky and he relents, curls his fingers in her silver hair and pulls her lips to his. Rain begins to fall in a torrent.

\----

The storm lasts into the evening, with thunder clattering in the background as he breaths into Daenerys’s hair. She is still tucked into his side when he wakes some hours later, though it’s still too dark for Jon to know how long he’s slept. Shrugging off one of the furs covering his bed, he notices the sound of raindrops hitting the stone terrace; it reminds him of ice blowing against the stone walls of Winterfell and the life he will return to once his time at Dragonstone is over.

Daenerys arches in her sleep, twisting into him while the linens fall away from her naked chest. Just looking at her stirs something low in his belly, a spark taking to dry kindling. Jon draws his fingers down the center of her chest, feeling her soft translucent skin, watching goose bumps form against the cool air. His thumb grazes her nipple and Jon has to consciously keep himself from touching her further as it hardens. There will be other times, he knows, when they are both less tired, especially if she gets her wish from him.

Even if this thing between them continues, he doesn’t see himself as a ruler of Westeros, no matter what his father’s plans might have been. The pull to wake Daenerys nags at him again, sharper as the rain begins to quiet. It’s hard to ignore, but eventually Jon closes his eyes and loosens his hold on her hip, releasing the tension in his spine. Her lips brush against the jagged scar at his neck, her warmth licking at his pulse.

Jon falls asleep knowing that the storm has passed.


End file.
